


Thought Cloud - Part One

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M, Other, Porny Stuffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:03:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">A collection of one shots & drabbles.</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silence Holds No Tune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Charles feels insecure and gives up on an emotionally distant Erik who won't admit to loving him despite how long they've been together/sleeping together. Cue angst/hurt/guilt (and possible happy ending?)

\--

He was drowning, drowning in the presence of Erik, in their combined pleasure as slicked skin dragged across skin, tantalizing, the heat of their flesh rising with every thrust of Erik's hips, radiating a burning pleasure from where their bodies joined.

Charles couldn't withhold a quiet gasp as Erik roughly clutched at one of his sweat slicked thighs, fingers digging in, bruising, before ripping it to the side, opening Charles wider, penetrating _deeper_ , Charles body arching up in a perfect bow to meet the violent snapping of Erik's hips, clenching his eyes shut at the delicious burn the new angle provided. He could hear Erik's panting above him, knew from memory how his reddish brown hair would be sweaty and tousled, half slicked back and the other half stuck to his forehead, mouth cinched shut with the slightest baring of teeth every time he buried deeper into Charles' body.

On a downward thrust Charles _squeezed_ around Erik's substantial girth and released a satisfied chuckle as he felt the man's rhythm falter, a deep guttural moan belonging more to an animal than a man biting into the dark.

Laughing, apparently, had been the wrong thing to do as the body above him withdrew, Erik's thick cock pulling out slowly until only the tip remained plugging him up. Whining, Charles pushed his hips up, attempting to impale himself further on that wonderful, making a desperate (if not embarrassing) keening sound as a large, calloused hand gripped his hip tight, stilling his movements, while another grasped his chin.

"Open your eyes Charles, open them wide for me," Erik whispered, breath hot and right _there_ fanning his lips. He blinked them open slowly, lazily, knew how much Erik got off on him acting coy, innocent. He blushed scarlet at the pure unadulterated _want_ piercing green eyes pinned him with, predatorily tracing the movements of a deft thumb that slid away from cupping Charles' cheek to ghosting along the soft flesh of his bottom lip. Watched as those eyes darkened when Charles took the very tip of that thumb into his mouth, sucking lightly on it before flicking the pad with his tongue; widening his eyes deliberately in a fashion of innocence that contrasted his actions.

"Say it," Erik demanded, voice lust rough, eyes boring into Charles' own.

"Fuck me." Charles tried to move his hips again but stopped immediately as Erik, skin shining in the faint light, glared down at him, the grip on his hip clenching in warning. Some might find this show of domineering control frightening, for Charles, it was so representative of who the man was that all it did was call attention to the fact that Erik was still only barely inside him.

"Again." Erik sunk a couple of centimeters deeper, smirking triumphantly as Charles writhed beneath him like a bitch in heat.

"Please Erik, fuck me." Another a couple of centimeters and Charles couldn't help but thrash, moaning pathetically as Erik refused to move further.

"Again, and make it worth my while this time."

Enough. Sinking further into the bed, he disentangled his hands from where they had twisted into the sheets and brought them up to his own nipples, erect and straining in the air, a small smirk developing as Erik's gaze became riveted to where he began playing with the sensitive nubs.

"Erik," he gasped indulgently, "I need you to cum inside me." He flicked one nub lazily, body arching into the touch even though it was the sound of Erik's audible swallow that sent pleasurable shivers down his spine.

"I need you to cum inside me," he repeated, fluttering his eyelashes for effect. "To fill me up past the brim, overflowing to the extent that the next morning when I wake up I'll still be leaking part of you, I'll be able to dip into the mess of my thighs, scoop it up and push it back in. I'll be so _loose_ Erik. So loose and slick. I bet I could get an entire fist up there on the very first tr-"

Charles didn't have enough time to stifle a yelp of pain as Erik's hips snapped forward in barely restrained ferocity, filling that aching emptiness inside him so deliciously at the same time he forced Charles' head backwards with an angry twist of his hair, snarling viciously into the space of Charles' neck.

"You're going to pay for that my pretty baby."

\--

Utterly spent and coming down off of a high, Charles allowed the post coital glow seep into his bones. His body ached, but delightfully so, and nothing contented him like the feel of the naked, albeit sweaty length of Erik's body spooning him from behind. It had taken months to convince Erik to stay in behind after intercourse, months of Charles badgering, trying not to seem desperate in his attempts to get the man to stay. It had paid off eventually, and after that first time where Charles had resorted to exhausting the other man to the point where he physically _couldn't_ leave, well, Erik had never tried to ever since.

Charles smiled into the pillow as he felt the hand draped across his middle, slide down past his flaccid member and nudge itself between Charles' closed thighs. He could feel his lover's smirk curve into the nape of his neck as his fingers drew patterns idly into Erik's still wet essence spread warm along his inner thighs.

A soft kiss was placed at the base of Charles' neck and in turn he released a happy sigh.

"I love you."

A barely discernible grunt was his only reply.

\--

The next morning when Charles awoke, it was to an empty bed, Erik having disappeared just as easily as Charles' tears had vanished into his pillow.

No evidence left of either but the quiet breaking of his heart.

\--


	2. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Prompt:**   
> 
> 
> While Charles and Erik are having sex, Charles projects his pleasure so strongly that everyone in the mansion, no matter what they're doing, spontaneously orgasms.

\--

Breakfast the next morning is an awkward affair.

Erik and Charles are notably missing from the table -- not that the children notice of course what with each and every one of them staring into the depths of their cereal as though it held the key to the universe.

To his credit, Alex is the only one actually eating, but even he cringes each time the metal spoon clinks loudly against the ceramic bowl with every spoonful he takes, the sound echoing audibly in the otherwise silent room.

Raven is trying of course, almost even starts a conversation to hopefully bring back some form of normality, but when she opens her mouth to speak it's coincidentally at the same time Hank decides to do so as well. Their eyes meet over the table and both of them are keenly reminded of just how their 'stimulating' conversation on her genetic makeup was interrupted last night.

Their gaze averts almost instantly, both Hank's cheeks and Raven's ears burning a telling shade of red. The awkward tension remains unperturbed.

Alex's clinking continues for a good few minutes before Sean releases a heavy sigh.

"Okay, so did anyone else randomly cum in their pants last night or what?"

\--


	3. Upholstery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU: Charles, Erik's neighbor, comes over to mooch off of Erik's cable. He sits entirely too close and Erik is thoroughly distracted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this [awesome mcfassy manip](http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lyffwlxNPk1qmmt27o1_500.jpg) created by the amazingly talented [fassbender-mcavoyobsessed](http://fassbender-mcavoyobsessed.tumblr.com)

\--

Charles’ laughter is prevalent in the spacious apartment, a decidedly warm tone that sings off of the brick interior and if Erik allowed himself he could bask in that sound, revel in it’s easy slide day to day, hour after hour.

It is by no feat of restraint that pulls him back in this instance, just the light huffs of breath soaking into the cloth of Erik’s trousers, the heat of it reaching the skin beneath - obliterating Erik’s focus in the process.

Charles, damn him, notices nothing, continuing his easy laughs on the ground before Erik, his cheek resting lightly against Erik’s outstretched thigh.

The couch can easily fit two, but for some reason Charles enjoys watching the tele on the ground, sits in the exact same place every friday regardless if the settee is taken or not. 

Erik generally doesn’t mind when his neighbor comes over for his weekly perusal of Erik’s cable (“ _Why on Earth would I pay for cable, Erik? I only want to watch one show_ ,” Charles remarks once upon Erik’s questioning, eyes not so much as straying from where Will Anderson is introducing this episode’s guest panelists), they’re friends, not terribly close friends, granted, but but well acquainted all the same.

But there are days, days such as this, when Erik just can’t seem to keep his heartbeat in check, incapable of disallowing his eyes to linger on the span of a barely hinted at collarbone - the smattering of freckles sweeping across the bridge of an imperfect nose. 

Friends aren’t supposed to look at friends like that. 

Guys in long term relationships with beautiful and mysterious women like Emma Frost are not meant to look at their friends like that. And their breath is most definitely not meant to hitch, to stutter and shudder when said friend presses his face a little closer into their thigh, tired and lazy after pulling a 10 hour shift in the upper scale restaurant he works at.

Charles wriggles where he sits, legs crossing and uncrossing, restless. 

“Can you move your knee a bit?” Charles asks, fingers tapping the mentioned knee where it is digging a little into his neck. He glances up over his shoulder, eyes apologetic (and so very blue, too blue, world-fucking-shattering _blue_ ) as he says: “Forgive me, my friend. It’s just a mite uncomfortable.”

Erik, slave to the tiny smile Charles sporting, yields unknowingly, body slumping further into the corner of the couch, sliding down the length of it so Charles’ head rest against the fleshier part of his thigh; his thick brown hair, soft looking and feather like, so close within Erik’s reach. 

He wants to bury his hands into that head of hair, drag his fingers through dark, silken strands, petting, gripping, caressing. He wants so badly his hand actually twitches in Charles direction, urged forward by some kind of magnetic pull that Erik has no control over.

He stamps upon the compulsion with a viciousness he usually reserves for the courtroom, wills his fingers to bite into the plush, red upholstery instead.

“Better?” Erik says gruffly, a choked sound that he hopes goes unnoticed. Charles makes a soft humming noise in the back of his throat to signify his affirmative, focus already re attained by the debate taking place on Emma’s 40 inch plasma (Gaudy bloody thing, too big, too expensive. Erik tastes lie in the underrated, something safe and unassuming, something that may not be all flash but will last him a lifetime.)

Time seems to drag from that point on, each passing moment measured in the weight of Charles amusement, a chuckle here and there, and the intermittent twitching of Erik’s fingers. 

It’s only with an undoubtedly clever quip from one of the show’s permanent panelists (Todd? or was he Russel?) that Erik belatedly realizes that the world, the universe, and more than likely God himself - hated him.

Charles apparently finds the man’s comment fucking hysterical, throwing his head back in a graceful arc, laughing, exposing the delicate stretch of his neck to Erik’s reluctant, greedy gaze. 

The pale flesh is a veritable buffet, laid out obscenely before a starving man who is eager to sample, to taste, to gorge himself on what has been previously denied.

He should not be so appealing, Erik thinks distantly, frustrated as he watches Charles wipe tears from the crinkled corners of his eyes, throwing a delighted look back at Erik, cheeks tainted with a high flush.

His face must reflect some semblance of his thoughts, for Charles’ amused expression falls near instantly. He sweeps Erik with a troubled look, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

“Is something wrong? Erik?”

Yes, Erik wants to say, Yes, something’s wrong.

He has a job that he genuinely likes, one that offers financial security and pique his interest at the same time. He has a beautiful apartment, large and spacious like he’d always dreamed of, sleeping cramped on a single mattress with his mother as a child in their one room flat, praying that one day he could give her more, a palace that she so rightfully deserved. (It wasn’t a palace, but she’d still cried with joy when Erik had lead her around a quaint two-storey house just outside of the city, his large hands guiding her through every sunlit room, squashing his own tears at her face when he finally showed her the garden, flowers of every kind swaying in the breeze.)

And he had Emma - witty, beautiful, self assured, independent. Emma who may not exactly love him yet but has made her fondness more than apparent.

Yes, of course something’s wrong.

Erik is supposed to be _happy_.

“No,” he says instead. “It’s nothing.” 

And he’ll keep telling himself that, long after Charles has retired to his own home after a quick clap goodbye, promising to cook dinner for the three of them the next evening, smiling as he twists out of the way of Emma as she walks through the door.

He tells himself that even when he’s laid up in bed, his girlfriend sleeping next him not 3 centimeters away. 

Convinces himself that it doesn’t mean anything, that he lies sleepless beside her imagining what it would have felt like, if he had leaned forward in that moment and tongued the line of Charles’ clean shaven jaw, had littered that perfect expanse of neck with gentle kisses, nipping only lightly on the surface, suckling on that pale flesh until it bloomed red.

He wonders how Charles might react to such an advancement, if he’d push him away, nose crinkled in disgust, shouting a litany of curses that had no place being uttered by Charles' kind lips as he damned Erik’s wanting with the end of their friendship.

He also wonders if perhaps he’d yield in Erik’s grip, soft and pliant as he stretched his neck out further, better to accommodate Erik’s giving mouth, panting, those damnable blue eyes glazing over with a film of lust as he whimpered for _more_.

\--

Erik, in bed, thinks of wavy brown hair, shaggy in places and due for a cut, recalls the compulsion to touch, to stroke, to feel.

And if beckoned by the mere memory, arm draped loosely around Emma’s sleeping form; Erik’s right hand twitches.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: If anyone is interested in what show Charles is watching it's 'The Gruen Transfer'. It's an Australian panel show and it's one of my favourites.


	4. The Hazards of Close Quarters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles mistakes Erik's sweater for his own.

Stretching out on his chosen bed, Charles slowly begins the process of returning himself to the world of the living. Knowing his own nature and his tendency to oversleep, he permits himself only a couple of minutes to continue lazing in bed, listening to the dulled pitter patter of the running shower for a few moments before forcing himself to swing his legs over the edge, blankets pooling at his waist as he sits up, yawning.

Groggily he rubs at one eye, using his sleeve to wipe dutifully at any left over crust as the bathroom door swings open, steam billowing into the motel room in a cloud of wet warmth. 

“Is that my sweater?”

Charles, still somewhat brain dead from the left over remnants of sleep, merely blinks confusedly at Erik a moment before the other man’s words register. Looking down at himself, he pinches the material at his chest, watches it come away from his skin a good few inches before releasing it, comprehension dawning.

He rubs the back of his head sheepishly, ears burning as embarrassment floods his system. Erik just continues to stare at him (strangely intense, hazel eyes boring into him) from where he stands in the bathroom doorway, his arms crossed over his naked torso in a stern manner, tense, even as left over droplets from his recent shower trail down his chest in thin rivulets.

Mouth suddenly dry, Charles has to forcefully clear his throat before he replies.

Thank heavens the man is wearing pants.

“Forgive me, my friend,” he starts, “I must have picked it up last night by accident.” He tries for an apologetic grin to accompany his words, concentrates on conveying his contrite emotions without actually projecting them onto the other man; knowing without doubt that the gesture would go mostly unappreciated. Truth is, the moment he'd pulled the jumper over his head - it had been more than obvious it wasn't his. Though Erik had a narrower waist, his shoulders were much broader than Charles' by a fair margin and so preferred to wear a larger fit to accommodate the latter more than the former. In other words; Charles had been practically _drowning_ in the soft grey wool. The sleeves had brushed the edges of his finger tips, the material hanging on to his shoulders dubiously, nothing short of a prayer keeping it dangling on.

But it had been late, the wool comforting and warm with a hint of Erik's scent lingering in the weave. It had been just enough incentive to simply crawl into bed, curl up beneath thin blankets and let the exhaustion of travel claim him.

Erik gave an amused snort, his handsome features twisting into a tiny quirk of the lips at Charles’ explanation, small beads of water flying from his hair as he shook his head, ridiculing Charles good naturedly if such a thing were possible as his fingers drummed nonsensically along the jamb of the bathroom door.

Shrugging exaggeratively, Charles huffed out a laugh and answered with a self deprecating smile; annoyance peaking when the downward fall of his shoulders disturbs the already precarious placement of Erik’s sweater, allowing the neckline to slip to the side, the slack material sliding down his biceps to catch at his elbow.

Peering down at his newly exposed flesh, Charles couldn’t keep the scowl off his face if he tried. This was utterly ridiculous.

Exhaling a breath of irritation, he drags the material back over him (Jesus, you could even see part of his nipple) and settles it appropriately so the likelihood of another such incident occurring decreased.

Having sorted himself out, he looks up to re engage Erik, initiate some further conversation before they have begin to scour the city for the handful of mutants currently residing in the area. Only when he looks up - Erik has disappeared from the doorway, the bathroom door firmly shut once again. Charles waits a moment. Sure enough, the sound of the shower running resumes, the low groaning of pipes filling the room once again.

Confused (and perhaps a mite worried), Charles means to stand from the bed, to walk over and knock on the flimsy timber and check that all is well; despite Erik’s often pedantic nature with cleanliness - two showers within one hour is most alarming.

Besides, he’ll use up all the hot water and Charles could do with a scrub.

A cold splash against his cheek, however, startles him from getting up. Reaching up, he dabs at the foreign liquid and brings it into his line of sight, rubbing it between his middle and forefinger contemplatively.

Silver. Metallic.

He flinches again as another drop falls upon his face; his nose this time. Looking to the ceiling, searching for the source, his eyes widen a fraction at the sight presented to him, his mouth pursing in a small ‘oh!’ of surprise.

The light fixtures were melting.


	5. Boldness Takes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles asks Wesley to teach him how to kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **WARNINGS: Incest/Twincest and underage kissing (boys are only 15)**   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> This is just a small scene I scrapped from a Charles/Wesley that I've been working on for awhile. It just wasn't working with the rest of the story.

\--

_“Wesley, you’ve kissed girls before, haven’t you?”_

_Wesley gives a high hum of affirmation, only half awake where he is sprawled across their mother's favourite chaise lounge, socked toes nudging lightly into the side of Charles' thigh as he takes a seat furthest from him._

_The late afternoon sun filters into the 2nd Floor library in soft rays, highlighting the blue of his brother's eyes as he gazes hesitantly at Wesley, hands wrangling the hem of his shirt nervously._

_“What-" Charles starts, pausing to inhale a lungful of air before continuing._

_"What's it like?”_

\--

A question.

Three words. 

Three syllables.

A catalyst.

\--

He brings a palm up to cradle his brother’s jaw, his thumb stroking up in an ark across Charles’ flushed cheek, embarrassment and trepidation painting the normally pale flesh a blooming red and Wesley has to struggle to maintain his even breaths when those eyelids flutter shut in ready expectation.

As much as Wesley understands that Charles initiated this (voice oddly determined even as his fingers itched and twitched where they lay folded in his lap), he still can't help from feeling that he is taking advantage of the situation somehow, taking advantage of _Charles_. 

( _There are things Wesley dreams of in the night, filthy, wrong. Dreams that he'll never speak of, will never share; perverse imaginings that have him waking in a desperate sweat, eyes wide, body taut, his own hand rubbing roughly, almost cruelly along the line of his stiff cock beneath the silken material of his pajama bottoms._ )

He should put a stop to this, he _knows_ this without a shadow of a doubt. But the sight of Charles - rosy cheeked and vulnerable, face canted upwards in nervous anticipation - is too tempting a picture and Wesley has never been known for his self restraint.

He has always been the greedy twin.

“You ready Charlie?” He whispers.

He doesn’t know why he bothers asking, Wesley highly doubts he could back off now even if Charles had responded negatively. Still, when Charles nods his head slightly in affirmative Wes feels something inside him untangle and loosen, a tension easing he hadn’t even known he harbored.

Permission granted, he takes one last look at the vision his brother makes beneath his stroking thumb (‘beautiful’ his mind whispers, 'so beautiful') and before he can psyche himself out; he leans in.

He starts off with just a quick brush of the lips, feels his own pulse quicken just at that brief touch, wills himself to keep this chaste. 

This is Charles’ first kiss after all, and he came to Wesley to learn - not to be devoured.

Though he had been initially confident, Charles is hesitant to press back straight away, seemingly content to let Wesley lead. The second kiss is much of the same - a quick press of the lips, a small peck that could be mistaken for being utterly platonic if not for the way Wesley's blood begins to sing. He's not sure who is more surprised, him or Charles, that when Wesley pulls away from his brother's lips that Charles, in a burst of movement - chases him, bringing up both his hands to slide on top Wesley’s shoulders in a smooth motion, pushes forward until their mouths are connected once again.

The notion that Charles is actually enjoying himslef almost undoes Wesley right there, the rush of arousal shooting down his spine so fast that before he can remember himself his unattended hand has grasped his brother’s hip, urging him closer, up and over Wesley's lap as he sucks roughly on that beautifully plump bottom lip; biting down on a groan at the resulting whine.

His brother’s lips are delightful, perfectly soft and far too accommodating to his ministrations and without much thought he nips lightly at the swollen flesh, licking at the damage as he laps and swallows Charles’ shocked little gasps. The other boy’s body is trembling beneath his finger tips, Charles' knobby knees digging into the couch on either side of Wesley's hips and Wesley only has a brief awareness that his resolution to keep this PG has already been broken when he nudges Charles’ mouth open with his tongue, failing terribly at stifling a moan when he finally gets entry.

Despite Wesley’s previous compunctions, his twin appears to be more than receptive to the current happenings. Charles' hands are now fully buried into the back of Wesley’s hair, fingers tangled in the thick brown locks but not pulling, just an anchor to hold onto as Wesley licks his way past his lips, exploring his mouth with a greedy enthusiasm.

It’s sloppy and not at all graceful, Charles is too inexperienced to know how to avoid their teeth clashing and Wesley is too eager, too distracted by his brother's barely noticeable rocking in his lap to manage any degree of finesse. 

He can feel thin strains of saliva running down his chin, wonders if he should be ashamed at how excited he is at the prospect that it’s potentially not his own.

Charles doesn’t taste like ‘strawberries’ or ‘ground cinnamon’ the way the people do in those paperback novels Cook is always sighing and fluttering over (bunch or romantic bollocks, anyhow). He doesn’t really taste of anything really, just a hint of the tea he’d been drinking after supper and that’s all.

And yet.

Intoxicating. Addictive.

_Charles._

When Wesley finally pulls himself away for some much needed air he prepares himself for just how utterly wrecked his brother will look, all mussed up curls and flaming cheeks. What he fails to prepare himself for is the resulting whimper that escapes his pretty lips at the loss of contact, the string of saliva connecting them made all the more filthy with that one sound, so needy, so desperate; Wesley can easily ignore the shame that builds when he realizes he’s hard and throbbing.

\--


	6. Untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Erik's first time attending one of his company's work functions. He brings his husband Charles as his date. 
> 
> Please read the warnings in the notes for this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS: for mentions of homophobia and verbal attempts to emasculate a male.**
> 
> Inspired by this [confession](http://firstclassconfessions.tumblr.com/post/19050925765) over on tumblr.

\--

Erik watched Charles flit around the room with a warmth most would think out of character, his gaze so uncustomarily soft that his fellow colleagues had cause to double take as they approached the buffet table he stood beside; momentarily stunned before quickly gathering their food and drink and skittering away like mice beneath Erik's sharp grin.

It never failed to amaze Erik to the extent Charles always seemed to shine in any given social situation, his already exuberant personality brightening noticeably as he mingled with crowds of strangers, laughing and chatting, making those ridiculous hand gestures to accompany what is more than likely some abstract recounting of his latest experiment; it had Erik smiling knowingly despite himself.

He had been cautious at first, coming to this event. Erik has been working for Shaw Industries for just over 4 years now, and given his rather reclusive nature, nobody had been particularly surprised that he had failed to make an appearance at any work organized function.

This was the first.

Nobody had been shocked that he’d brought another man as his date, the numerous photo frames littering his desk weren’t exactly subtle and Erik felt no particular inclination to hide them either, positioning them within clear sight; Charles and he hugging, kissing, laughing - the clumsy polaroid Raven had taken on their wedding day. 

Still, when they'd first walked through the function room’s doors, hand in hand, wariness had already begun to take root, shoulders tensing as his nimble fingers entangled themselves tightly with Charles’ own. Charles had merely smiled encouragingly up at him; fearless as he always was.

Erik had never gotten any trouble for being open about his sexuality in the office, but no one (save a few close acquaintances) had met Charles before and being aware of someone’s orientation and being confronted with it could inspire two contrasting responses; one of which was highly aggressive, especially if alcohol were involved.

Hence, Erik had been cautious.

For nought apparently, Erik chuckled, sipping on a glass of champagne as Charles linked arms with Armando across the room, pulling he and his wife Monet over to the floor length windows looking out over the botanic gardens their venue provided, smiling happily even as Monet tutted over his crinkled shirt and crooked tie.

'Like a child in a candy store.' Erik mused.

Shaking his head amusedly at his husband’s antics, he quickly downed the rest of his flute in one smooth motion, placed the empty glass down on the table before beginning to make his way over to his partner, patting down his suit jacket pockets habitually to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind.

He was halfway across the room, weaving through the countless social groups, exchanging a casual nod and wave here and there, when someone called out his name from behind him.

Sighing, he turned to greet Shaw, slipping his polite mask firmly in place as he allows his CEO to clasp his hand in a firm handshake. He barely restrains himself from snarling when the other man claps his shoulder and gives him an irritating squeeze.

_Control._

“Erik, my boy! So glad you could make it. Finally deigned to grace us with your presence, hmm?”

Erik took a deep breath, attempting to look anywhere but his employer’s smug face lest he be tempted to punch it.

“Charles and Emma are good friends,” he says, purposefully stilted. “He wanted to celebrate her promotion with everyone else.”

He motions over to the direction he was heading, where Charles is still conversing with the Munoz’s and Emma has seemingly sprouted out of the woodwork decked out in her usual white, her attire contrasting nicely with Charles’ dark suit which Erik still thinks makes him look dapper as fuck.

He sees Shaw’s gaze zone in on Charles and immediately regrets the gesture.

Shaw makes a small humming noise in the back of his throat, his hand still gripping Erik’s shoulder like he were a disobedient child.

“Ah yes, the ol’ ball and chain,” Shaw chuckles, not unkindly but still with a hint of something that makes Erik’s skin crawl.

“Had the pleasure of meeting him just before. Charming chap, isn’t he? Well, if you’re into that sort of thing.” He glances at Erik, dull blue eyes widening as he realizes what he’s just said and then, quite inappropriately, promptly bursts into raucous laughter, startling a few people close by them.

Erik merely grits his teeth against his rising temper, quells it with an iron fist.

“Yes, well,” he mutters. “I best get back. If you’ll excuse me, sir.”

Shaw nods his head understandingly, wipes non existent tears away from the corner of his eyes as his mirth continues.

“Yes, yes of course. Don’t want to keep your cute little wife waiting,” Shaw agrees, ignoring the way Erik stills in his attempts to get out from beneath his grip at his words.

Deathly calm washes over him like a thick blanket, his voice cold when he speaks.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Erik whispers. “But Charles is _not_ my _wife_.”

Shaw appears startled at Erik’s change of tone for a moment before that infuriating smile is back on his lips.

“Oh! Apologies. I just assumed because.. well never mind that. Though I have to admit, my dear boy; I never pegged you to be the woman in the relationship.”

Fury. Unbalanced, unfettered - Fury. This fucking ignoran-

Control.

_Control._

\--

_Charles drinking a glass of milk this morning, hair unkept, a dash of white painting a mustache on his upper lip._

_Charles fiddling with Erik’s tie, frustrated, before finally throwing his arms up into the air, defeated, admitting he has no idea what the bloody hell he’s doing._

_Charles in their bed, his cold feet pushing against Erik’s own._

_Charles whispering I love you every morning and night for the past seven years, blue eyes tender._

\--

Control.

He steps forward firmly, crowds Shaw until they’re practically nose to nose, relishes just a bit in his employer’s slightly frightened eyes as he takes in Erik’s thunderous expression.

“Listen very closely, because I’m only going to say this once. I am not ‘the woman’ in our relationship and neither is Charles. Do you want to know why?” he asks, the glower in his eyes making it more than clear that Shaw is not to answer.

“Because funnily enough - there is no woman in our relationship and I would take it as a kindness if you never referred to my husband as such ever again. Now then. Have a pleasant evening, sir. I’ll see you on Monday.”

And with that, he swiftly steps away, turns on his heel and makes a beeline for Charles, strides stiff, ears deaf to the room around him.

Despite his perceived control the rage still burns inside him, festering like a disease and if it goes unchecked, could potentially consume him.

He gets to Charles easily enough, he imagines he looked intimidating enough to part the crowd like the red fucking sea.

When he finally approaches, he doesn’t take hold of the other man and demand that they go home. He doesn’t make a scene, doesn’t usher them into a corner so they can quietly talk, he doesn’t even scoop him up in a passionate kiss.

Erik simply slots himself into Charles side, leans down slightly to kiss a headful of untamable dark curls, let’s the anger ease out of him as his husband accommodates his presence without so much as breaking eye contact with his current conversation partner.

Erik just breathes, reaches around to Charles left side and takes his hand, intertwining their fingers like it’s second nature - allows warmth to swell and rage to dissipate as their silver wedding bands accidently clink into each other.

He squeezes lightly. 

Charles squeezes back.

\--


	7. Stroke the Furry Wall (or Mutant)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank/Charles - In which Charles is high as a kite and Hank is becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the first fic I ever wrote for this fandom (and was also my first fic ever), so understandably - the writing is a little off. I hope everyone enjoys it though!
> 
> Based off of a prompt from the old kink meme where OP wanted Charles to have a weird, tripped out reaction to some pain killers and does something weird to one (or all) of his students. 

\--

The first sign of abnormality Hank takes note of comes to light the very moment the Professor waltzes through the kitchen door.

He notices because he is doing just that. 

_Waltzing._

The second comes when Charles, who, although thoroughly involved in what Hank can only call a bastardized version of a traditional dance, finally perceives Hank's presence at the large cedar table, freezing mid spin in a stunning example of dexterity to fix his uncanny blue eyes on Hank's hunched form. 

When no bright ideas appear to be forth coming as to how exactly he's meant to handle the situation, he gives the older man a hesitant wave, his wrist barely moving as he decides with an internal nod that the Professor's odd behavior is nothing to worry about.

However, the lopsided grin he receives in return, he thinks, cannot bode well for him.

He's quite correct.

One moment Hank is happily enjoying a bowl of oats (and his personal space mind you) and in the next has somehow acquired a lapful of fascinated professor blinking up at him coyly from beneath straight, long lashes. 

The world takes on a surreal, somewhat dream like tinge from the moment he realizes that Charles, _Charles Xavier_ , master of politeness and all things gentlemen, was essentially straddling him in the kitchen area, the heat of the shorter man's thighs pressing down into Hank's own as he wiggled a little to make himself more comfortable; seemingly indifferent to the fact that he was quite inappropriately welcoming himself to Hank's bony lap.

Which is weird, you know, the whole not blinking thing. _Well_ , Hank muses, cringing slightly when Charles makes another movement, the swell of his ass rocking into Hank's groin momentarily; _weirder_. 

Hank thinks he should probably say something, deliberates if perhaps shoving the Professor off followed by an immediate apology wouldn't be completely unwarranted. But embarrassment and confusion has rendered him immobile, unable to speak, unable to move; unable to do anything but sit their with a semi hard on (Don't judge him, okay?) as Charles, brown curls decadently wild, a lazy smile spread wide across his face as he stares up at Hank with rapt attention, disconcertingly silent.

Hank's at a loss as what to do with his hands.Placing them on the table on either side of Charles feels too much like he's trying to embrace him and the only other available surface is well, is Charles. He has to forcibly will his body not to react to that notion.

So he merely contents himself with keeping them raised at eye level, fingers spread wide as if he were cornered by the police, waiting for Charles' next move. Apparently, just twiddling his fingers proves distraction enough for the older male.

Charles (because things aren't weird enough already) is suddenly under the impression that his hands are for his own, personal perusal, drawing them closer to his body and skimming his fingers over the pale skin of his palm almost reverently, eyes riveted like his hands are the most fascinating thing he's laid eyes on. When the purring starts (or something similar to that effect) Hank begins to think that perhaps it's high time he got some answers before the others made their way into the kitchen. He didn't think he could survive the teasing he would undoubtedly endure if he were caught in such a compromising position - and with the Professor no less. Especially if it was Havok who came down first.

Finding the will to speak, he means to be stern, wants to be direct and to the point. Instead when he opens his mouth it goes a little more like this: 

"Um, professor? Is, well, is everything... alright?" 

Genius. Top of the class. Harvard must surely miss him.

In his defense, Charles does stop rubbing against his hands (God that sounded wrong, thank the heavens that Erik isn't the one with telepathy). On the downside, apparently hearing his voice has only drawn his attention elsewhere. Elsewhere beings his face. Naturally.

Hank isn't too surprised that Charles doesn't answer his question. At this point he's not so much concerned with what Charles thinks he's doing - if he's thinking at all really - so much as he is caught up with the why. 

Though, he admits, the whole new sudden found delight in rubbing their cheeks together like affectionate kittens does throw him for a loop. Or perhaps three dozen.

He merely sits there for a couple of stunned seconds while Charles continues to nuzzle him, dragging his nose downwards until he can bury himself just beneath Hank's chin. Eventually though, Charles manages to draw away, looking up at Hank with his too wide eyes and a too wide grin.

"Why is your fur so much softer then mine?"

And it only goes downhill from there.

\--


	8. Of Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik/Charles - Charles, the young master of the house, and Erik - the Groundskeeper's new helper. 
> 
> Modern AU.
> 
> Warnings: Weak allusion to abuse

\--

With one final harsh squeeze to the bicep, Kurt released his arm, near throwing it away from him as he departed, the music and chatter from inside crescendoing in the time it takes for his step father to reenter the party, the sound abruptly muffled as the door clicks shut behind him.

Leaving Charles outside, ears burning in embarrassment as he stared at his feet like a scolded child.

( _"How dare you make a fool of me, boy," the man spat, mouth morphing into a sneer as his beady black eyes narrowed in disgust._ )

Charles was dimly aware that he was shaking, his pulse still racing in the aftermath of Kurt's idle threats (Not idle, never idle).

Twenty two years old. An adult. A man. 

But Charles still feared the consequences of raising his step father's ire. The thought annoyed him in it's honesty, made his fingers turn in against his palm, clenching, as anger filled him in the wake of his weakness, the immature fear that always managed to take hold in the older man's presence.

He was not a docile creature by nature, more passive than most admittedly, but by no means some shrinking violet, and of all the wrongs Kurt had done upon his person, his ability to transform Charles into nothing but a timid child was one he hated the most.

A gentle breeze blew past him, the air sweet where it brushed past his skin in a soothing touch, placating his temper to a dull simmer that was easily reined in and ignored.

Sighing deeply, he looked around him as he straightened the sleeve of his jacket where it had crumpled underneath Kurt's manhandling (Charles hated formal wear, his back always itched no matter the material of the dress shirt and the bow tie too tight, suffocating, no matter how loose he arranged it.)

The outdoor area was devoid of guests, thankfully, though Charles couldn't fathom their absence. The inside of the Xavier Manor was a glorious representation of architecture no doubt, but it paled in comparison to the sight of it's outdoor property, the rolling acres of greenery extending as far as the eye could see.

The estate's private garden in particular was a beautiful sight, all manner of flora, both native and foreign, laid in an immaculate plan that curved and bent around paths man made for viewing pleasure. 

The patio looked over the vast garden, and Charles ignored the staircase to the left that descended into it's breathtaking depths in favor of leaning forward on the balustrade, taking in the sight with a small smile; it was the last beautiful thing his father left behind that had yet to be tarnished by his Sharon's negligence and his step-father's greed.

Charles was particularly fond of a group of large sunflowers surrounding one of the few benches that were littered throughout the garden. They looked obnoxious next to the graceful shapes of his mother's favorite roses, clunky and out of place in every aspect: form, color, size.

There was nothing perfect about these great yellow monstrosities and in light of that Charles could not help but love them so.

A rustle of noise to his right startled him out oh his thoughts. His eyes sought out the origin and he had to bite down on a yelp of surprise as familiar eyes met his gaze from the shadows of a dark corner.

Charles watched on in fascination as a curl of smoke escaped the other man's lips, a thin cigarette snugly fit between two fingers where his hand was positioned before his mouth.

Throat suddenly dry, Charles took a moment to clear it.

"I did not see you there, my friend," Charles said, eyes quickly darting to his left and right as if he expected a handful of others to spring unbidden from the floor.

The other man merely quirked an eyebrow, taking a deep drag as if to accentuate his lack of interest in responding, leaving their silence to settle uncomfortably around them.

Charles would have been suitably affronted by the older male's rudeness if he were not already accustomed to such treatment from him. As it were, he merely 

Erik Lehnsherr was an enigma of the household, the mysterious son of Edie, the resident cook, one who never lacked a smile when Charles chose to take his meals in the kitchen, patting his cheek and filling his plate with more than he could possibly eat. The man had arrived not two months ago to take up work for Gregor, the estate's groundskeeper who had been getting along in age and was in need of a helping hand.

Lehnsherr was a hard sort of fellow, a weaker germanic accent than his mother but the vowels just as rough - and though he wasn't overt in his dislike for his employers, his distaste for the Xavier-Marko family was more than apparent. 

Charles remembers that first morning when he'd come upon Charles taking an early breakfast in the kitchens, gesturing wildly to Edie around a mouthful of porridge as he retold ridiculous anecdotes from his time at boarding school in a bid to make her laugh, to see her smile. He remembers the man's attention settling on him as he entered the room, the span of Lehnsherr's shoulders tensing at the very sight of Charles leaning on the island bench; expression cold.

Even now he regarded Charles cooly, pushing off the wall he leant on as he flicked his lit cig to the ground, crushing it with his heel as he stepped forward in Charles' direction, not once allowing his gaze to break from Charles' own; immobilizing him quicker than any threat Kurt had ever made.

He could only stare, frozen, his breath quickening as the other drew closer, long strides that ate up the distance between them in mere seconds, stopping close enough that Charles, shorter of the two, was forced to look up into Erik's face lest he be staring at the man's throat instead.

Lehnsherr, despite his roughness (or because of it maybe) was quite handsome in the face, features sharp and dangerous with a dusting of dark ginger stubble littering a strong jaw, lightly tanned given his work in the sun.

Charles was envious of men like this, _masculine_. Not that Charles could ever be mistaken for a girl, not in a thousand years, but his pale skin and freckled nose, the set of his eyes, the roundness of his face - all of it made him appear much softer, gentle.

Unthreatening.

Erik's features were much the opposite and it was all the harder to look him in the eye for it.

The stood not but a couple of inches apart in silence, nothing but the rising song of cicadas in the background to ease the tension that brewed between them and Charles dearly wished he could read the other man's mind, to know what he was thinking at this moment would have been a godsend.

Lehnsherr appeared to be frustrated, the skin between his eyebrows pinched together in annoyance, his eyes - the colour ever changeable - baring down into Charles' own, searching, seeking; for what Charles couldn't comprehend.

It was awkward, just standing there in silence, Erik looming over him like a childhood nightmare; able to be seen yet strangely intangible. Charles could already feel himself fidgeting, his fingers picking at the material of his slacks where his hands hung beside his thighs.

The other man was filthy, trousers streaked with mud and the singlet he donned Charles could only assume was once white was now much in the same state as his pants only with the added 'appeal' of a sweat patch spreading from the collar.

The smell of earth and sweat mingling wasn't as unpleasant as Charles expected, instead it carried a certain weight, thick but not stifling, heady in a way that made his eyelids flutter and his cheeks to heat. 

Erik peered down at him curiously, an eyebrow raised in either mockery or question - likely both. 

Embarrassed as he was at his own reaction, he ducked his head in an attempt to save face, only for his chin to be caught in one large hand (dirty, rough, calloused) and yanked, not unkindly, until he was once again facing the taller man, mouth turned down in a grimace.

"Don't _do_ that," Erik whispered harshly, english thick through his accent, the sound wracking shivers down Charles' spine even as it told him to perk up and pay attention.

Erik's eyes darted to where his fingers gripped Charles' face, pupils dilating as he ran a thumb along the edges of his clean shaven jaw before grasping it tighter, earning a gasp from Charles in the process.

"Not for him. Not for me. Not for anybody. You understand?"

"No", Charles wanted to say, "he didn't."

He would have voiced as much if Erik had not cut him off with a sharp shake of his head, the pad of the other man's thumb pressing down on his lips in a shushing motion.

"Mama tells me you begged that man for me," Erik whispered, the words carrying a thread of frustration, as though he'd been carrying them with him for an. For a moment Charles couldn't make sense of his words, the change of subject too quick - and then it dawned on him what Erik was talking about.

Edie had come to him. Hesitant at first, pride warring with desperation, but after much waiting, eventually she had asked, eyes turned away as she kneaded a slab of dough on the counter.

"My son," she had started, "is having difficulty finding a stable job." 

She'd told him that after her husband had died, Erik had become quite angry, that he'd made a few big mistakes - mistakes that had made it hard for him to make a decent living even now. Edie hadn't elaborated on what those mistakes were, precisely, and Charles hadn't asked. 

He'd merely taken one of her flour covered hands into his own, clasping it gently as he gave her the most reassuring smile he could muster.

"I'll take care of it."

It had been... difficult, trying to convince Kurt to hire help that they technically didn't need - even more so for someone that had a criminal record - but after three weeks of ass kissing and groveling, for the first time in 9 years the Xavier Estate had an opening amongst it's staff and Erik Lehnsherr was on a bus bound for Westchester County.

Charles peered up at Erik with new understanding, one that cast a startling different light over their interactions. The cold shoulder, the blank gaze, the indifference. It was only a guess, he could still be wrong - but something was telling him he wasn't.

"Were you embarrassed?" Charles asked, cocking his head to the side in curiosity. The grip around his chin tightened fractionally and Charles had his answer.

Lehnsherr's expression appeared conflicted, the wrinkles of his forehead scrunching up in concentration.

"You shouldn't have had to. Too good for that. You shouldn't have to bow your head to anyone, least of all to him."

Erik released his grip on Charles' face with a bone weary sigh, the tips of his fingers tracing the side of Charles' jaw as they pulled away, reverent almost, leaving Charles oddly cold in the aftermath of their slow retreat even as something inside him fizzled with burgeoning warmth at the other man's words.

"Least of all for me."

\--


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Erik just wants to eat his fucking sandwich and enjoy the 'view' at the same time. Is that too much to ask?**
> 
> Inspired by the image below which was originally posted on tumblr [HERE](http://jamesfuckingmcavoy.tumblr.com/post/17238519668)

\--

\--

It was official: the guy on the grass was a complete fucking weirdo.

A flexible weirdo, Erik conceded, but a weirdo nonetheless.

"Dude, the fuck is that guy doing?"

Erik gave a careless shrug as Alex plonked himself on the scaffolding beside him, safety helmet tucked haphazardly under one arm and earning himself a glare when his jostling almost loses Erik a cigarette.

Flicking ash on to the pavement below, he brought the stick swiftly back to his lips, uncaring of the indignant yelp of a pedestrian walking on the sidewalk two storeys down.

They'd been working on site for over two weeks now, restoring the third floor of some historical landmark building that it's owners had negligently allowed to succumb to rot. It was hard work, mostly heavy lifting so far and clearing away the debris of torn down walls - no actual constructing as of yet so much as destructing.

It was still tedious in Erik's opinion, and so was the crew he was working with. The kid was the only one worth his salt and Erik barely tolerated Alex as it was.

Especially when he was trying to annoy Erik with his inane nattering and cutting into Erik's much revered smoke break - one that was really just an excuse for Erik to spend a half hour each day to perve on 'Floppy-Hair' (as Erik has dubbed him) across the street as the man goes through his daily ritual of being an adorable whack job.

No.

Seriously.

Erik doesn't even smoke.

The kid tosses him a sandwich from his back pack and Erik is drawn away from the appealing sight of Floppy-Hair doing some strange squiggle thing with his hips to scowl down at the glad wrapped monstrosity sitting in his palm.

"This is Tuna."

Alex paused in his own endeavor of unwrapping his lunch, blinking over at Erik incredulously.

"You haven't even opened it yet."

Erik's glare at his 'supposed' lunch intensifies and Alex, as if sensing he was two seconds away from getting said sandwich slapped across his face (accurate assumption, by the way), he threw his hands up in the universal sign of surrender.

"Fine! Jesus, here." The kid quickly swaps out Erik's sandwich for his own, expression petulant. "It's Chicken," he grumbles.

Grunting his approval, Erik butted out his cig on the crown of his own blindingly orange hard hat that was placed beside him, ignoring Alex's disgruntled mutters ("Picky bastard.") in favor of taking a satisfying bite of his chicken sandwich and returning to his favorite past time of recent weeks.

Floppy-Hair watching.

Just in time too. The other man is trying to touch his toes, body practically folding in half as he bends down to reach the ground, his firm behind displayed fully for Erik's viewing pleasure and good God, Erik notes, head tilting to the side to get a better look - what an utter pleasure it is.

\--


	10. The Ascension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Wings   
> **TW:** Implicative Incest
> 
> **Note:** AU where having wings is part of the norm

\--

He endures the stifling pain for months before he comes into his _Ascension_.

The agony of that night had been tremendous; Wesley face down on the sheets, screams tearing past his teeth as Charles rubbed soothing circles into his shoulders, attempting as always to abate his hardship with honeyed words and a healing touch.

He can tell Charles is as frightened as he, if not more. Wesley might be able to feel the movement beneath the flesh of his back but Charles has got front row tickets to the freak show and Wes had just managed to catch a glimpse of the strangely panicked, desperate horror on his brother's face before the pain comes to a crescendo, a searing heat burning up the length of his spine before fanning out to encase him, ringing from his lips the most torturous sound his lungs will allow and yet seems barely able to convey so much as a quarter of his suffering.

For a moment the world loses it's colour, it's sound; the room thrown into stark white where Wesley loses all sense of himself, of his person, his life, his goals, his everything. The bed disappears beneath him, the blankets clutched in his grip are weightless and without texture.

All that remains is the soft touch of a hand to his shoulder - comforting, _loving_ \- and a whispered plea: " _Wesley_."

And just like that, the world floods back in an array of sensation, the previous pain gliding into a dull throbbing and replaced by sudden, utter relief. Darkness creeps in at the edges of his vision and Wesley does not attempt to resist it's pull.

Sleep claims him with the smell of blood still hanging in his nostrils and his brother's hand still steady upon him.

\--

Some many hours late, Wesley wakes to the feeling of his brother wiping him down with a warm wash cloth, the clinging remnants of dried sweat and blood being swept away like they never were. The sheets are clean beneath him, all of them changed and fresh from the dryer if the delightful warmth pressing against his front is any indication. He sighs happily when Charles starts on his feet, burying his face into the pillow while occasionally flinching away when Charles smoothes over some of the more ticklish areas, much to his brother's amusement.

He takes the risk of glancing over his shoulder to peer at him, biting against the twinge of pain that ricochets down his back at the small motion.

Wesley freezes when all he sees is a wall of greys and whites.

His wings are longer than he thought they'd be, the ends of each tapering to a stop somewhere near mid calf; they're thinner too, less... fluffy, each individual feather long and sleek, layering upon one another to construct one major mass that will one day lift him to the skies.

They are wondrous, beautiful, everything Wesley has never believed himself to be. He's been preparing for this moment for 8 months now, ever since the first muscle spasm that foreshadowed his 'Sprouting', and it is everything and nothing like he imagined it would be.

Wesley takes a deep breath, concentrates, and watches with rising joy as his right wing gives a lazy flick even as his back aches for the trouble.

Charles makes a sound like a gasp and Wesley's gaze swings to the noise immediately.

Charles is kneeling on Wesley's left in nothing but a pair of shorts and a simple white t-shirt, his bare knees digging into the mattress as he hovers over Wes; a washcloth in hand and a bowl of soapy water just off to the side on a butler's table.

His brother looks at Wesley's flicking wing with nothing short of wonder, his mouth slightly parted in surprise as awe softens his expression.

It came as a surprise to everyone, even to their negligent mother with her regal floor length wings, that Charles had not managed to begin to _Ascend_ at the same time Wesley had. The doctor, of course, had soon clarified that ascension, though obviously a very physical process, did not react to biology like puberty did, but instead to a state of mind.

Wesley had been 'ready', mentally, for the changes and thus his body had followed.

No explanation, however, was able to stop the crestfallen look that cast down upon either of their faces when they realized they weren't able to share this important milestone of their species. Charles had sulked for days; they both had. 

Wesley can see now the tamed traces of envy in his brothers gaze, and despite how much he loves his brother, he can't help the satisfaction from festering deep in his gut. It's hard growing up with a twin that is the definition of perfect when you are less so; the comparisons alone batter right at the self esteem, and the words 'Why can't you be more like your brother' grate like nothing else can.

So yeah, Wesley lets himself relish in this a bit - then feels immediately guilty when he remembers the fresh sheets he's lying on and the wet cloth clenched in his brother's hand.

In that moment Charles catches him watching, startles for a moment before bring a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, bashful.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to gawk at you."

Wesley shakes his head, fascinated by how quickly redness seems to pool into his brother's cheeks.

"It's fine, bro," he says, distracted. A sudden need to please, to make his brother smile overruns his sensibilities. "You can touch, if you like?"

It's Charles' turn to shake his head, even as the blue of his eyes seems to alight. He's glancing at the tender section between Wesley's naked shoulder blades, though, so Wes knows where his hesitation stems from. The openings are still raw, and despite healing being faster among their kind it will still be weeks before Wesley will be allowed to leave the bed.

The pain is worth it, though, to hear Charles' shocked gasp as Wesley focuses on raising the wing closest to his brother, and jerkily unfurls it until it stretches out to it's full span. It's an awkward angle, and they curl around his twin unconsciously, protective almost in a way that keeps Charles ushered in towards Wesley and away from the outside world. 

Wesley tries not to speculate on that.

"Go on."

It comes as shock when Charles, who Wesley expected to use his hands, hesitantly leans forward to press his cheek against the offered wing, sinking in to the downy softness with a pleasant sigh. Wesley watches as Charles hums contently, familiar eyes fluttering shut while his even breaths ruffle the feathers in vicinity. 

It's a strange sensation, intimate, like a caress on the soul; one Wesley feels throughout his body, a pleasurable shudder that racks him from head to toe, feathers rustling. 

He thinks he should feel ashamed for how easy arousal is achieved with such a simple gesture, one made by his brother no less, but if anyone could see Charles now, how perfect he looked with his dark curls and red lips buried in fist-fulls of Wesley's white feathers; his expression gentle and pleased all at the same time--

Undeniable.

It's some time before Charles chooses to open his eyes, and when he does he's looking at nothing but Wesley, his lips in a private, loving smile, pushing home the thought that everything truly is right and perfect in the world.

\--


End file.
